The Gatekeeper of Mount Chione

‘Gate of Memory, heed my words, let memories vanish with the scattered snow.’

The far northern border of the Norman Empire was conspicuously undefended.

Amidst the fervent, nearly two-decade-long witch hunt, this region stood as the most glaring gap in the net, a beacon towards which a torrent of ravaged sorcerers from across Norman territory surged.

Having circumvented the patrols of countless city-states, they were smuggled from Ham County, the largest city in the north, hidden within the containers of human traffickers.

They believed that simply crossing the border would grant them freedom, that reaching that distant place would shield them from persecution.

At least, that was the fervent hope of most fledgling mages.

It was only when they caught a distant glimpse of those towering, overlapping peaks that the depth of their ignorance became painfully clear.

Only then did they grasp the true reason for the Norman Empire’s lack of defenses here, realizing that escaping man-made calamity only led them into nature’s even more unforgiving crucible.

Mount Chione stood in silent majesty, bestowing bone-chilling cold, impartially observing every living creature amidst the sub-zero blizzards.

This mountain range was incredibly vast, its western reaches stretching into barren, magic-desolate lands, its central part extending a hundred miles into the empire’s northern border, and its eastern side facing the Ash-Rift Plains of the Eastern Continent (Moldaga) across the sea.

Its outer ring comprised glaciers to the west, towering mountains in the middle, and frozen forests to the east.

The inner ring was a colossal barrier, a ring of peaks formed by several overlapping fault lines, within which lay an unfathomable abyss.

From the basin of this chasm, a singular, sky-piercing peak rose solitarily, perpetually enshrouded by blizzards imbued with vast magical essence, obliterating all traces of life and impenetrable even to light.

The natural sciences had yet to definitively explain this phenomenon.

Approaching for samples was undeniably a gamble with one’s life, and even the most rigorous and professional research teams could only observe from afar, clinging to the outer ring.

Some claimed it was a natural phenomenon born from the accumulation of telluric magic.

Others suggested it was an experimental artifact left by an ancient, miraculous civilization.

Still others believed it to be a magnificent divine miracle wrought by some deity.

Regardless, with the annual increase in flash floods from Mount Chione’s peripheral riverbeds and the yearly decrease in blizzard intensity within its core, scholars of the snowy mountains were forced to confront a distressing truth: Mount Chione was melting.

Although the people living in the northern lands detested the ice and snow deity that had brought such bitter cold, to truly learn that her solemn mystery was slowly eroding was unquestionably heart-wrenching, especially for the Maian people who had lived at her feet for generations and whose faith was deeply intertwined with her existence.

On clear days, one could vaguely discern the towering, cloud-wreathed peaks of the outer foothills in the far distance.

However, for half the year, even the outer ring was frequently blanketed by swirling, heavy snow.

The physical prowess of sorcerers was inferior to that of warriors and priests, classifying them as the weakest among supernaturals; most were barely better than ordinary people.

For the mages attempting to detour and escape the country, their first encounter was an unprepared confrontation with the bone-piercing cold.

Their faces blurred with a layer of frost, their exhaled breath, like fine powder, settled into the snow.

Their exposed fingers quickly turned white and numb, and their legs, buried in the snow, had long lost all sense of direction, moving forward only with a dull numbness.

Under the indifferent sunlight, a profound silence reigned.

There was no wind, no clouds; the frigid winter realm opened its gates for caged birds stripped of their rights, then mercilessly swung its scythe, harvesting lives as frail as reeds.

Within this forbidden zone of life, all fire-based magic was suppressed.

Commissioned by the Eastern Continent’s Council of Mages, 25-year-old Rhine served as the sole ‘Gatekeeper’ and ‘Undertaker’ here.

Mages wishing to escape the Norman Empire by this route had to traverse three snow-capped mountains consecutively.

A lone mage, without ample supplies, faced certain death.

Even in groups, acts of betrayal were frequent occurrences; losing a teammate midway often meant a greater chance of one’s own survival.

Moral choices seemed so utterly insignificant in the face of such brutal reality.

His role as ‘Gatekeeper’ entailed safeguarding a teleportation spell that directly connected to Moldaga, all under the vigilant eyes of the empire’s border defenses.

As ‘Undertaker’, he provided a proper resting place for the lonely souls buried in the blizzards, including the retrieval of their unclaimed belongings.

The entire mission demanded discretion; each additional person brought increased danger, and the avaricious wizards of the Council of Mages were unwilling to take such immense risks.

The long-distance teleportation spell could not accommodate a load of more than three individuals; overloading it invariably led to failure, condemning everyone to be cast into spatial turbulence.

This meant that facing thousands of fleeing sorcerers, Rhine could only teleport a maximum of six people per day.

Should he publicize his possession of the teleportation spell, the extremely scarce slots would undoubtedly ignite a bloodbath, with the very pathway to life held entirely in Rhine’s hands.

Truth be told, as someone plagued by decision paralysis, he derived no pleasure from this sensation.

Even though the lives and deaths of other sorcerers were entirely unrelated to him, he was often tormented by eyes that shifted from hopeful anticipation to utter despair.

Why was he here?

It was not for any particularly noble reason, nor did he possess a savior complex.

The reason was merely that the previous Green was also buried here, and a bout of social discomfort had prompted him to revisit this melancholic place.

Sparse flakes of snow drifted and danced, settling upon the fingertips of yet another frozen corpse propped against a pine tree.

Rhine, leaning on his staff, approached.

His gaze, shadowed by the brim of his classic wizard’s hat, rested on the black-and-white family photo clutched in the corpse’s hand.

‘Rest in peace, may your soul find its recompense.’

Having routinely cast the spell for soul deliverance, ensuring the deceased would not transform into a vengeful spirit and suffer endlessly, Rhine expertly retrieved a cracked wand from the corpse and continued to follow the faint tracks leading deeper into the forest.

Time under the snow always passed slowly, as if frozen in place.

Bending, searching, chanting, rummaging through bodies—against the stark white canvas, the monotonous work gradually made him lose all sense of time.

Should a lone wizard be fortunate enough to encounter him, he would adhere to the principle of first-come, first-served, impassively ignoring their tearful cries of what felt like salvation.

Often, it was only when his hands were navigating the encroaching darkness that he realized the sun had set.

Only the occasional scent of conflict could barely stir his spirit, which had grown as desolate as the endless snowscape.

A wizard who attempted to ambush and rob him had their wand-holding arm severed by Rhine’s Cleaving Art.

A wizard who tried to desecrate a female corpse was bound and buried naked in the snow by his Binding Art.

A wizard who attempted to murder a companion was flung off a cliff by his Blasting Art.

Just as he was convinced that such was human nature, that the beastly side would ultimately triumph over reason in the struggle for survival, he encountered a group of children.

They were meticulously protected, utterly out of place in the icy wilderness, and as innocent as if they were merely on a picnic.

Leading them was a beautiful, blind female wizard, whom the children affectionately called ‘Teacher’.

That sudden encounter made him question his worldview of ‘survival of the fittest’ for the very first time.

Her name was Merlin.